


The Ferret's Nest

by loveglowsinthedark



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Harry, Bottom Draco, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Rimming, Smut, Top Harry, it's a fucking pest but it's cute, potion maker draco, they have a pet ferret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26180257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveglowsinthedark/pseuds/loveglowsinthedark
Summary: Harry has a ferret and a whole lot of tattoos. Unfortunately, it's only one of these things Draco approves of.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 183
Kudos: 2467





	The Ferret's Nest

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who ain't dead! Itsa meeeeya!
> 
> FR tho, I'm sorry for my prolonged absence. It's been a whole year since I posted my last fic. But I super, _super_ happy I get to post something before fall semester starts cause after that who knows when I'll find the time. FML.
> 
> So this fic was written for a 'prompt' by [lazywonderland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywonderland) after we watched a video of a really cute ferret hoarding stuff for its secret nest, and saw some fan art of Harry with a shit load of tattoos that we thought was really hot. (I'll put in a link to the fan art as soon as I find it, I'm so sorry!) She basically said, "Bitch, write a fic where they have a pet ferret that steals their shit. And make sure Harry has all these different tattoos and is really hot." Like, wtf am I to do with that?!
> 
> Anyway. :\
> 
> Thank you so much, [lazywonderland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazywonderland), for the speedy beta! Any remaining errors are mine.
> 
> [Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the work of J.K. Rowling and is not my intellectual property. I intend no copyright infringement and seek no financial gain from this work. This work of fiction is purely for entertainment purposes.]

“POTTER!”

A pause.

“ _POTTER_! COME OUT HERE RIGHT _NOW_!”

Harry finally shuffled out of the bedroom, toothbrush in his mouth, toothpaste on the corners of his lips and one smear on his chin. His glasses were crooked on his nose and he was squinting against the bright yellow of the sunlight pouring into the living room. His hair was absolutely beyond help.

He was also shirtless, clad only in joggers, and his hip bones distracted Draco long enough for Harry to pull his toothbrush out of his mouth to ask thickly through a mouthful of foam, “Wha’?”

Draco stood under the archway of the kitchen entrance, arms akimbo and his face pink with anger. “Look at this,” he hissed, pointing at something in the direction of the table inside the kitchen.

Harry ambled over and Draco, despite his fury, reluctantly and furtively admired the way his muscles moved, his various tattoos seeming to dance over his skin. But when Harry entered the kitchen and snorted in amusement – emitting a spray of foam – Draco gnashed his teeth and kicked him in the shin.

“He did this!” Draco yelled, gesturing wildly at the scene in front of them. “He fucking _did_ this!”

Atop the table, a two litre bottle of pumpkin juice lay on its side, its contents spread across the round expanse of teak, dripping off the edge at various points. The _Daily Prophet_ , opened to page six, was plastered onto the table, completely soaked in juice. A steady trickle of juice dripped onto Draco’s chair; Harry’s chair, however, was clean.

On the floor, casually lapping at the largest puddle, was a long, extremely fluffy, snow white ferret, its pink ears and nose wiggling every few seconds.

“Stop encouraging this behaviour!” Draco shouted, pointing as though the scene wasn’t self-explanatory. Harry turned to him, hands held up in a helpless gesture, his mouth, pursed around his toothbrush, quivering with the grin he was holding back.

“Ah din’ encou’ge!” he garbled, shaking his head, tangled locks of hair jumping.

“You _never_ do anything when he behaves badly,” Draco said heatedly despite the fact that he was beginning to feel stupid already.

Because the next second, Harry waved his hand in a broad circle over the mess and wandlessly cleaned it up. The newspaper still looked a bit damp but the furniture was spotless and the cream kitchen tiles sparkled.

Immediately, though, the ferret set up a round of extremely indignant chattering, falling onto its back and rolling over once before scuttling off to his cage in a temper, his little paws slipping on the smooth floor.

“Fucking ferret,” Draco muttered, elbowing Harry aside and reaching for the empty bottle of juice. “I’ll kill it one day,” he added _sotto voce_ as Harry calmly resumed brushing his teeth, green eyes twinkling with mirth, irritating Draco even more.

And then Harry reached out and grabbed Draco’s bum, filling his hand with one round cheek and squeezing it. Yelping in startlement, Draco turned around and raised a hand to slap his arm but Harry had already slipped away, chortling through a mouthful of toothpaste, the lines of the tattoo across the muscles of his broad back glowing golden in the sunlight.

~*~

Draco had seen that tattoo seven years ago for the very first time and since then had never failed to find it – and every other tattoo on Harry’s body – rather exceptionally beautiful every single time he stared at it for more than a few seconds.

The Busy Bee in Diagon had been the most popular haunt of nearly every recent Hogwarts alumnus. Draco’d found himself there with Pansy, Goyle and Blaise almost every Friday and sometimes even Saturday evening. It felt oddly like home, the stained-glass and wooden interiors with dim, golden lighting, the buzz of bright chatter and swift service reminding him of the Great Hall. Nearly every table had boasted a familiar face, although that also meant he had to put up with a great deal of hostile glares. But like everything else after the War, those had eventually faded away too.

Speaking of the War, its three most lauded heroes were often present there too, of course. Draco exchanged frequent glances with Weasley, Granger and Potter.

Most of all with Potter.

He was in Auror training and sometimes wore his trainee robes (cream with two scarlet stripes down the sides) when he came into the bar. Occasionally he’d take them off to reveal his ludicrous ripped jeans and weird Muggle band T-shirts underneath. He looked ridiculous like that. Utterly ridiculous. When had he even grown so tall? And was he getting bigger because of exercise or was he just getting fat? Probably getting fat, yes. Why didn’t he _ever_ get a haircut? One time he’d come in looking like he had, in fact, had a haircut, but the very next day he’d had a mane of tangles again and Draco had nearly flung his tumbler at him across the pub.

And why did he always return Draco’s stares? Draco was staring at him because ... well, he had his reasons. But what was _Potter’s_ excuse? It wasn’t even angry glaring. He _stared_. And Draco sometimes had to go to the loo and check if he had dried ketchup on his chin from when he’d been eating the chips that Goyle ordered that Draco had insisted he didn’t want.

One day he got his answer.

“MALFOY!” someone boomed across the pub and Draco nearly went into cardiac arrest.

When he looked up he found Weasley waving his arms like a windmill to beckon him over.

“What the fuck?” muttered Blaise next to him.

“Ignore him, Draco,” Pansy hissed from across him.

“I want more beer,” grunted Goyle from next to Pansy.

Draco, however, was staring curiously not at Weasley but at Potter, who was sitting there with his face a shade darker than Weasley’s hair, looking as though he’d like very much to simply expire. From what Draco could make out as he watched Potter pluck weakly at Weasley’s T-shirt and murmur something plaintively, Weasley determinedly ignoring him and elbowing his hand off, Potter was trying to plead with Weasely about something he seemed to have no control over. Meanwhile, Granger looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh and kept her gaze carefully averted, stirring her drink with the long, wooden stick with a cherry stuck on it.

Intrigued beyond rational thought, Draco slipped out of their booth and made his way over to where the trio sat at the bar. Potter was determinedly not looking at him and for some reason this made Draco’s gut clench with a mixture of defiant anger and forlorn disappointment. Granger flashed him a swift smile and produced a book seemingly out of thin air that she buried her face into with an air of overt interest.

Weasley on the other hand simply beamed at Draco, holding his big, ruddy hand out. Draco looked down at it; he had very fine red hair on his arms and some sort of marks that looked like he’d at some point had thick ropes wound around his them tight enough to leave permanent scars. There was a sprinkling of freckles across the back of his hand and fingers and his nails were surprisingly clean and neatly trimmed.

With a smile that probably made him appear nauseated, Draco carefully placed his long, white hand in Weasley’s and shook it weakly.

“Weasley,” he said stiffly.

“Malfoy!” he almost shouted, and when Draco winced he looked a bit flustered. “Er ...” His blue eyes flitted sideways in a vaguely nervous manner. “Harry!” he abruptly screamed and thumped Potter on the back hard enough to knock him forward. Potter, scarlet-faced and furiously gulping at his beer, choked and sprayed beer all over the gleaming bar before hacking violently, slapping himself on the chest repeatedly. Draco had the overwhelming urge to laugh until he pissed himself but he refrained, biting his lip and casually looking up at the ceiling. “Look! It’s Malfoy!” Weasley said loudly, ignoring the fact that Potter now had tears streaming down his face. Granger, lips pursed, handed Potter a napkin and Potter, mopping his face fervently, turned slightly to offer Draco a watery smile.

“Hi,” he said hoarsely. “Hi, Malf-ack!” He suddenly relapsed into coughing and Draco stood there and seriously considered putting Potter out of his misery and just rejoining his friends.

“So, what’ve you been up to, eh?” Weasley enquired, shooting a look at Harry that clearly displayed disappointment. “I work at my brother’s shop,” he went on before Draco could even open his mouth to reply. “Y’know? Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes? Yeah, it’s pretty cool. But you know what’s cooler?” he said, leaning forward, eyes very wide. “ _Aurors_. They’re cool, y’know? Like ... Preventing crime and stuff? I mean, _you’d_ know,” he added with a chuckle, waving a hand at Draco’s left arm.

Draco went very still, feeling like he’d been slapped. Weasley had gone purple in the face. Potter had his face in his hands and Granger looked utterly aghast.

“Is there a reason you yelled me over here, Weasley?” Draco asked coldly.

“Sorry,” mumbled Weasley. “I meant to say that—I only meant— _Harry’s_ going to be an Auror, y’know?” he said, chest puffing out with pride as he elbowed Potter repeatedly. “Harry. Harry, show him your Ministry tag. Harry, c’mon. Hey, Harry, show him your—”

“He doesn’t want to see—” Potter started to mumble, but Weasley seized him by the shoulder and spun him around on his stool, nearly sending Potter sliding off his seat. Draco just had a moment to spot something silver hanging from a long, thin chain around his neck, gleaming against the dark material of Potter’s black T-shirt, before Weasley was waving the round badge, the size of a sickle, in Draco’s face.

Blinking in bemusement, Draco leaned back and blinked at the badge that had printed across it:

POTTER

TRAINEE

75646

“Yeah?” Weasley panted. “Cool, yeah?”

“Sure,” Draco drawled. “May I go back now?” he asked sarcastically, half turning away.

“TATTOO!” Weasley bellowed.

Potter loudly smacked himself on the forehead.

“What?” Draco snapped, wondering if it was another jab at his Dark Mark.

“Harry got a tattoo,” Weasley explained, slightly out of breath. “He got a really big tattoo. It’s on his back—Wanna see? It’s on his—Harry, mate, take off your—”

“Ron,” Granger cut in finally as Potter looked at Weasley with his mouth open, looking horrified. “Harry does not want to undress in public.”

Draco suddenly realised that he was having more fun than he’d had in years. Crossing his arms, he stood there and grinned.

“But he needs to show Malfoy his ta—” Weasley started.

“He is not going to show anyone anything in public,” Granger stated firmly. “Malfoy,” she added and suddenly Draco wasn’t grinning anymore. “Would you like to join Harry for a drink? Ron and I were just leaving.”

Draco felt his face heat and for the first time felt a bit bad for Potter who now looked like he was about to either throw up or bolt out of the pub.

“I ...” Draco said, voice quavering. “I mean ...” He turned to see Blaise, Pansy and Goyle staring avidly over at them, looking like they wanted to start flinging hexes. Draco shook his head minutely at them and then turned back around. “Fine,” he said, ensuring that he had his nose very high in the air. “I suppose I could grace Potter with my presence for a drink, why not.”

Weasley now looked more triumphant than he had when the Dark Lord’s body hit the ground lifelessly after Potter had finished him off. Granger didn’t look fooled for a second by Draco’s lofty speech. Rolling her eyes, she got to her feet and collected her coat and handbag. Weasley simply stood there looking very pleased with himself.

“Ron,” called Granger pointedly.

“What?” He looked around. “Oh, yes, yes.” And then, to Potter in a loud whisper, “The _tattoo_.”

Potter now just stared straight ahead, cheeks and ears flaming red, hands clenched into fists in his lap. Draco slid onto the stool next to him and placed neatly clasped hands on the bar, looking around the pub with great interest as though he had never seen human beings before.

Minutes passed and Potter still hadn’t spoken. Draco was sitting close enough to him that he could smell Potter’s cheap Muggle deodorant, a smell that he most certainly did not find oddly erotic. When he stole a glance at him, he saw a single drop of sweat trickle down the side of Potter’s face. Draco could feel himself starting to sweat beneath his arms and resisted the urge to sniff his armpits. The crowd around them went on chattering and drinking, completely unaware of the enormity of the situation Draco was in.

Finally, Draco grew nervous enough that it translated into impatience.

“Whiskey,” he snapped at Potter, who jumped in his seat and turned to look at him guiltily.

“Er ...” he replied eloquently.

“I’ll take a neat whiskey if you don’t fucking mind,” Draco spat, wondering why he was getting more and more irritated by the second. Maybe it was just his natural reaction to being around Harry Potter.

Potter scowled. “Do I resemble the fucking barkeep?” he asked, pushing his stupid glasses up his nose.

“Fine, I’ll just go, then,” Draco said, abruptly giving up and turning on his stool to hop off and stomp away.

Potter’s arm shot out, sturdy fingers curling around Draco’s wrist, his grip unexpectedly strong. He sighed. “Sorry,” he said with a hint of a scowl still lingering about his face. And then, before Draco could reply, he called out to the barkeep who’d just appeared from the other side of the circular bar, “Hey, Martin? Can I have a neat whiskey, please? And another one of these?” He indicated to his empty pint.

And that had been Draco’s first date with Harry. It had involved mostly a lot of strained politeness, lingering glances and curious questions. There had also been, eventually, plates of crisps, fresh fish and chips and casual touches and firmer eye contact. It had been past eleven when they finally decided it was time to head on home. Potter had insisted on paying and had said, with a shrug, “You can pay next time.”

And it was after that next time that Draco, being pressed up against the wall in the alley behind the restaurant they’d dined in, had asked, between furious, wet kisses, to see Potter’s tattoo. Potter had grinned and pulled his neatly tucked shirt out of his crisp trousers, pulling it off over his head and turning to show Draco the bold black lines of the outline that stretched across Potter’s back. The stag’s head, situated between his sharp shoulder blades, was tilted back proudly and its antlers stretched all the way up to his shoulders. On the stag’s head was a wreath of lilies. There was no colour or anything flashy about it whatsoever, but Draco was left breathless as he ran his fingertips over the lines of the tattoo.

After Potter had pulled his shirt back on, leaving it untucked and pressing Draco into the brick wall to kiss him some more, he’d whispered against Draco’s mouth, “So, what d’you think?”

Draco had considered lying but all that he could whisper back was the truth. “I love it.”

~*~

Draco sat on the sofa reading the new book of ancient potions recipes he’d found at a book fair in Wiltshire. It was almost half past nine and he was starting to get pleasantly drowsy. Almost completely out of groceries, they’d ordered curry from their favourite Indian joint two streets away and the taste of onions and spices still lingered in Draco’s mouth.

Harry was in the bedroom, folding and sorting laundry, and Draco’s mind started to wander from the Liver Strengthening potion recipe to form a mental list of all the things he’d need to buy the next day at the supermarket. Letting the book fall closed in his lap, Draco sighed and rubbed at one eye with his forefinger, the room swimming before him just as something blue flashed across his vision.

Blinking, he looked around to see Moody scuttle past with his own little soft baby blue flannel blanket clutched in his pink mouth. Draco scowled. That fucking ferret. He still couldn’t believe that Harry washed his gross, fur-covered blanket along with the rest of their clothes.

Still scowling, Draco leafed through the book again and found the recipe he’d been reading, carefully noting the techniques and any unheard-of methods that he could introduce into his own potions at Mungo’s. Just as his eyes landed on a paragraph that described a particularly interesting way to extract natural oils, he saw a familiar-looking white cloth being dragged across the floor.

Leaning forward in confusion, Draco watched Moody hop awkwardly around the large bundle of material, tripping over it, when it suddenly struck him that—

“THAT’S MY NEW DESIGNER SHIRT!” Draco howled, flinging the book aside and charging at Moody, who upon realising he was being followed quickened his pace, scrambling away with the shirt firmly caught between his sharp little teeth. “GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT _BACK_! _POTTER_!”

“He didn’t mean to, he didn’t mean to!” Harry yelled from inside, appearing a moment later with Draco’s favourite green boxers slung over one shoulder. He ran into the living room and looked around for a mess before running into the kitchen where Draco was standing with bared teeth. “What? What’d he do?” he asked.

“My new white _shirt_!” Draco snarled, pointing at the fridge behind which Moody had disappeared. “Get that creature to give it back and I swear to Merlin I will _poison_ it if there’s even a single rip in it!”

Harry, biting his lip over a smile, hurried forward and tried to stick his arm behind the fridge, making those little chirping noises he made to call the ferret.

“Moody,” he panted after trying in vain for a few seconds. “Moody, come out.”

“ _My new white shirt_!” Draco wailed, tugging at his hair with both hands. Harry now grabbed the edge of the fridge with both hands and heaved, moving it forward a few inches and craning his neck to peer behind it before heaving again and pulling it forward some more. “Is it there? Is it torn?” asked Draco, crowding up behind him, breathing down his neck.

Harry suddenly emitted a choked guffaw of some sort that sounded like he was being strangled.

“Oh my god,” he heaved.

“What’s—I swear to fuck!” Draco shouted. “Tell me what happened to my shirt!”

Harry bent over, his pyjama bottoms riding low enough for Draco to see the top of his crack, and with a tug produced Draco’s white shirt, now covered in dust bunnies and chunks of dried ferret food.

“What the fuck!” Draco yelled, holding it away from himself between forefinger and thumb. “I _hate_ that fucking _rat_!”

But Harry was bent over again, laughing soundlessly at something behind the fridge. Draco could hear the furious chattering of that stupid little ferret and a moment later, with another tug, Harry turned around clutching a bunch of dusty socks and a grey waistcoat.

“My waistcoat!” screeched Draco, snatching it from Harry and examining the dirt and gunk on it. “My fucking socks!”

“He’s got all sorts of shit back there,” laughed Harry, turning to peer behind the fridge again. “Oh my god, _here’s_ where all those kitchen towels are!”

“This is Prada!” shrieked Draco, waving the waistcoat at him before abruptly elbowing him aside and sticking his head behind the fridge.

The blue flannel blanket was there, bundled up with a cosy dip in the centre. Strewn around were about half a dozen of the soft, highly absorbent kitchen towels he and Harry had bought when they’d moved in together and still favoured, a handful of dish sponges in various states of deterioration and a discoloured pillow cover. There was also Moody, standing on his hind legs, dooking and emitting shrill shrieks of fury at losing his designer loot.

“He’s built a fucking _nest_ in here!” Draco said furiously. “I can’t believe he’s stealing all our things! He has his own fucking cage with a fucking custom made mattress in it and he’s stealing my designer clothes to build a fucking nest here!” Draco’s voice had steadily risen until he was screaming again.

Moody screamed back at him.

Harry, meanwhile, was nonchalantly rubbing Draco’s bum.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t steal anymore of our stuff, okay?” he said in a voice that was supposed to be soothing but shook with suppressed laughter.

“How about we just throw him out the window instead?!” Draco spat, turning around and slapping Harry’s hand off his arse.

Harry’s eyes went very wide and innocent. “You’d miss him,” he said gravely. Draco glared and held up his dirty clothes in reply. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” Harry said with a small smile—or rather, smirk.

Draco glared at him until he stood stiffly in the tight circle of Harry’s arms. Harry still had the boxers hanging over his shoulder. “The ferret needs to be _gone_ ,” he growled. Harry grinned.

“Which ferret?” he asked before turning around and running, laughing, all the way to their bedroom, Draco spitting expletives as he chased him, flinging dirty socks at him the whole way.

~*~

They’d been together two years before they finally agreed that they wanted to move in together. Draco hadn’t had the courage to say that he’d been ready long before that. Harry had been looking for a place of his own ever since Weasley and Granger got engaged and so when he’d had asked Draco, looking nauseous with nervousness, whether he wanted to look for a place together, Draco had seized the opportunity with both hands (and a foot, for good measure).

Draco had only just finished his course on medicinal potions and had been applying for jobs at apothecaries before Harry, newly appointed Junior Auror himself, suggested he apply at Mungo’s too. Draco had been extremely doubtful of his chances there considering his background and when he’d received the owl telling him he’d been appointed as assistant brewer to the head potioneer at Mungo’s, it took every bit of self-control not to violently confront Harry about whether he’d had anything to do with it.

With their respective new jobs and schedules it had taken them nearly two and a half months to finally find a place they both really liked and agreed upon and another six weeks to finalise the deal and finish moving in. An additional month to finish setting up home and they were finally able to throw a housewarming party.

Draco planned for it to be an event that would forever be imprinted in their guests’ memories—glittering and classy, catered by his favourite French restaurant, house-elves bearing trays of tastefully presented hors d’oeuvres, timeless tailored robes for Harry and himself and champagne by the crateful all accompanied by some carefully selected classical music tinkling prettily in the background.

What they ended up doing instead was getting enough beer to fill a swimming pool and ordering a bunch of pizzas. Draco and Harry both wore jeans and Longbottom brought a whole bagful of elvish dizzyweed with him and they listened to the Weird Sisters on the wireless and it was easily the best party Draco had ever been a part of.

Yes, everything had been perfect except for Weasley’s housewarming present.

He and Granger were the first to arrive and Draco had immediately eyed the wiggling lump under his jumper with a mixture of curiosity and tentative excitement—he’d fallen in love with Granger’s cat over the course of being with Harry and for a whole thirty seconds, Draco had been sure that Weasley had been sensitive and kind enough to gift Harry and him with a kitten.

What he’d pulled out with a flourish—and a shit-eating grin—was a fucking ferret.

It was small, just a few months old, Weasley announced, and had pure white fur and its nose and ears were very pink and it made strange, squeaky chattering noises and Harry had instantly been delighted, carefully accepting the creature from Weasley’s hands and cradling it, cooing at it and kissing its pointy snout.

Draco, his cheeks pink, had wanted very much to fling his glass of cold beer into Weasley’s stupid grinning face.

“You didn’t have to!” Harry had said even as he’d let the stupid creature burrow into his neck.

“No no, we knew you guys would love a pet,” Weasley said with a false air of modesty, grinning wickedly at Draco the whole time. Draco’s hand itched to slap him.

“I suggested we go with a French press or something,” Granger said, looking slightly pained and very contrite. “I mean, we all know how much Draco loves fresh coffee ...”

“Thank you, Granger, that would have been very thoughtful,” Draco said stiffly.

“His name is Moody,” Weasley said loudly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Harry let out a soft crow of joy. “Moody, the ferret!”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, you bastard,” Draco gritted at Weasley, hands balled into fists.

“What, why?” Weasley asked, blue eyes wide and innocent. “Look how cute he is!”

Draco had needed a lot of beer and dizzyweed to calm down and enjoy himself that evening. But when he woke up the next morning, his dragonhide loafers had been full of dried ferret poop.

Draco had sent Weasley a very long, _very_ rude Howler and then thrown out the shoes.

~*~

“Give it _back_!” Draco screamed, tugging at his silvery grey robes that he’d dug out from behind the fridge. “These were a gift! You filthy little bastard! Let. GO!”

With a final heave, Draco managed to pull the robes out of Moody’s ridiculously strong grip. There was a sharp ripping sound as the ferret’s teeth tore through the delicate silk.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Draco said furiously, examining the rip. “I’m going to—”

“I’m home!” Harry’s voice sounded from the living room. “Draco?”

“Look at this!” Draco seethed, stomping into the living room to wave his torn robes in a very startled Harry’s face. “Look at what I found in today’s scheduled inspection of that little shit’s nest! He got into my _wardrobe_ this time! I will not _stand_ for this, Harry, _I will not_!”

“Draco, babe, I—”

“Yesterday it was that lilac shirt that Lovegood made for me that _you_ love on me, by the way!” Draco interrupted him, still waving the ruined robes around. “Do you see a pattern here?!” He paused here, teeth bared as he glared daggers at Harry.

“I’m—”

“He’s only stealing _my_ things!” Draco yelled hysterically. “He only wants to ruin _my_ clothes! Goddamn fucking rodent thinks it can—”

“Ferrets are not rodents,” Harry mumbled, tugging at his earlobe, examining his shoes. When Draco only swelled further, rage building to a dangerous level, he hurriedly held up his hands. “I’ll—I’ll ... erm ... have a word with him ...?”

Utterly beyond words, Draco flung the torn robes aside violently and marched away, heading straight for the bathroom and slamming the door. As he undressed and tried to decide if he ought to have an hour long hot shower or simply treat himself to a proper bubble bath, he heard Harry come into the bedroom, talking softly; there was a familiar creak of bedsprings and some squeaky chittering, and a second later Draco realised Harry was gently chiding Moody—in their bed.

“ _Get him out of the bedroom right this instant_!” Draco bellowed, following it with a kick to the door. There were hurried footsteps and then silence.

Nursing his foot, Draco drew himself a bath. He decided that a nifty hex or two along the bedroom doorway and around the wardrobes that would send out electric shocks should instantly ensure that the stupid creature would get nowhere near his clothes again.

And he was definitely going to make Harry sleep on the sofa that night.

Determined in his plans, Draco soaked for over an hour, gradually cooling off while also sulking about his ruined robes. That fucking ferret and its fucking nest full of Draco’s fancy things. It was all Weasley’s fault. No, wait—it was all _Harry’s_ fault. _He_ was the one who’d accepted the ferret as a gift without checking with Draco first. Oh, he was definitely sleeping on the sofa for at least a _week_.

This plan immediately met an untimely death when Draco finally stepped out of the bathroom. Harry was lying on the bed. And Harry was almost completely naked.

He was wearing his tightest pair of boxer briefs and Draco could clearly see the promising bulge of that magnificent cock of his, and he had one hand in his hair messing it up _even more than it already was_ as was his wont, and his body was chiselled and tanned and tight with muscle, and to top it all off his green eyes were soft and pleading as he gazed meekly at Draco.

“I shut Moody up in his cage,” he said timidly, sitting up and awkwardly scratching his inner forearm over the vivid, flame-coloured tattoo of a phoenix. “Put his bowls in there too. He won’t get out until tomorrow.”

Draco barely even processed what he’d said. He just stared at Harry’s bare torso with all its many tattoos, his gaze slowly proceeding further south, taking in the tight thighs and the lean calves and the big, long feet before going right back to that inviting mound in his black pants. When it twitched, Draco blinked and looked back up at Harry, feeling his face heat as Harry’s face slowly split into a grin.

“Are you still mad at me?” asked Harry, tilting his head like a puppy.

“Whatever,” Draco said, sniffing and strutting over to his wardrobe, opening it and staring blankly at the contents, very much aware of his halfie and mentally cursing Harry.

And then Harry was right behind him, his arms slipping around Draco’s waist, his cock pressing against Draco’s lower back, rubbing gently.

“Don’t be mad anymore,” murmured Harry plaintively, working the knot of Draco’s pink terry bathrobe open and then turning him around in his arms. “You’re too hot right now for me to resist you.”

“Hmph,” grunted Draco, letting himself be pulled flush against Harry, shivering lightly as Harry pressed kisses up the side of his neck right up to the back of his ear, still carefully grinding his cock against him.

Draco’s own cock was gleefully filling up at a rapid pace and so when Harry closed his mouth over Draco’s, tongue immediately sliding into his mouth, Draco flung his arms around him and let himself be guided to the bed, both of them tripping clumsily over each other’s feet.

Their mouths still locked together, Harry slid his hands down Draco’s sides, his skin still warm from the bath, Harry’s slightly rough hands making him break out in gooseflesh. Gripping Draco’s arse firmly for a brief second, Harry then proceeded to slide the robe over Draco’s shoulders and toss it aside carelessly before cupping Draco under the bum with both hands and just as carelessly flinging him onto the bed.

Bouncing slightly with a yelp, Draco scrambled up to attack Harry’s pants, pulling them down and after a bit of a struggle, dragging them completely off Harry’s long legs, running his hands back up the length of them, feeling the fine black hair part under his fingers, to wrap one hand carefully around Harry’s erection and using the other to drag Harry forward atop himself.

“So you’re not mad at me anymore?” Harry asked breathlessly as he climbed on top of Draco and immediately grabbed a handful of damp, pale blond hair so he could pull his head back on the pillow and attack Draco’s long, spotless neck.

Draco just made a small nasal sound in reply, tilting his head back and cradling Harry’s head with one hand as he sucked up mottled little bruises on Draco’s neck, Draco’s other hand still firmly wrapped around Harry’s cock. He moved his hand in short, broken strokes, working the foreskin up and down until he could feel precome start to collect between the folds.

Working his hips to thrust into the tight circle of Draco’s fist, Harry focused on nothing but kissing and nipping his way down Draco’s front, nibbling on his collar bones, pulling his nipples up into tight little buds and leaving deep indentations with his teeth along Draco’s sides. Draco was hard and dripping already and could barely contain the gasps that were teased out of him.

When Harry finally reached his cock, Draco was ready to pop. But Harry kept his hand wrapped around the base in a firm fist and Draco could only moan softly as Harry licked along the slit, sucked gently at the glans and teased his foreskin back with his lips, taking Draco in deep.

“Harry,” Draco murmured, plunging both hands into his wild mass of jet black hair, tugging lightly. Harry pulled off with a soft pop.

“Turn over for me,” he replied huskily, not bothering to wait for Draco to comply, instead just grabbing his hips and unceremoniously flipping him over.

A hummed sigh sounded from Draco as he pushed his face into a pillow, biting his lip as Harry pulled his arse open and placed the tips of both his thumbs over Draco’s arsehole, gently pulling it open. Stomach clenched up in tight knots of steadily building heat, his cock oozing onto the sheets, Draco bit into the soft pillow, back dipping down as Harry wiggled the tip of his tongue into him, hands massaging Draco’s arse cheeks in circles, keeping him wide open.

“God, yes,” Draco whispered as Harry began to paint swift little licks onto his hole, each stroke pressing inside until Draco could _feel_ how wet he was every time his arsehole clenched involuntarily. “Harry,” he said again, pushing his arse back, pressing into the tongue that was now spearing into him with no sort of finesse whatsoever.

Harry didn’t respond except to double his efforts to lick Draco loose and so Draco, shuddering all the way down his spine, and sighing, turned his head and pressed his cheek into the downy comfort of the pillow, rubbing against it like a cat, exercising every ounce of self-control to not simply reach underneath and stroke himself to completion.

He was hazily floating on a cloud somewhere up in heaven, Harry’s fingers digging thoughtlessly into his soft bottom, his teeth scraping over Draco’s arsehole every few seconds. The sheets beneath him felt too hot and the room seemed to turn blurry and spin every time he let his eyes flutter open.

The deep burgundy curtains turned grainy and the wardrobe doubled as Draco’s vision shifted around in a daze, the floor tilting up to meet him, his pink bathrobe snaking along the floor and vanishing.

Wait.

“What,” Draco slurred, completely out of it.

“What,” replied Harry gruffly, wiggling his head forward to force his tongue deeper into Draco.

Lifting his head off the pillow and craning his neck, Draco squinted around just in time to see—

“THAT FUCKING FERRET!”

Flailing wildly, Draco sat up, pointing blindly towards the bedroom door. Completely startled, Harry toppled over backwards and fell off the bed, disappearing from view.

“NO! Not my bathrobe!” Draco shouted, springing off the bed and nearly crumpling to the floor because his legs were like jelly from being relentlessly stimulated to the point of intense orgasm. “You filthy little beast!”

Running unsteadily down the hall and into the living room, Draco was just in time to catch a glimpse of soft terry gliding along the floor into the kitchen and whipping out of sight around the corner. He let out another yodel of furious distress and sprinted forward, barely aware of his bobbing and wildly swaying erection as he ran.

He dashed into the kitchen and paused for an enraged second to watch as Moody desperately tried to force the bunched up bathrobe into the narrow gap between the fridge and the wall. Leaping forward, Draco snatched up his bathrobe with a snarl, eyes bugging out as, for one unbelievable moment, the shrieking ferret hung off the robe, flailing and thrashing, before Draco violently shook him off. Falling to the floor on all fours, Moody paused only to call Draco a bastard in Ferret, before skidding away to his favourite haunt behind the fridge.

Panting and sweating lightly, Draco turned when he heard footsteps approaching, waving his stolen bathrobe around just as Harry appeared, his expression oddly inscrutable, his erection long, thick and deep red, his Ministry issued badge (that now said SR. AUROR instead of TRAINEE) bouncing against his chest.

“How did he get out of his cage?!” Draco screamed.

“Must’ve learnt how to undo the latch,” Harry said, his tone just as odd as his expression.

“Well, _you_ need to—”

But Draco didn’t get to tell Harry that he needed to either get a new cage with a more complicated locking system or throw the ferret out entirely. Draco didn’t get to dramatically fling the bathrobe at him. Draco didn’t even get to _think_.

Because the next second Harry had grabbed him by one arm and dragged him to the counter, twisting his arm and pressing it to his back, grabbing the bathrobe and flinging it into the sink. Placing one hand just below Draco’s nape, Harry shoved him forward, bending him over, and without any sort of warning kicked Draco’s legs wide apart.

“Harry, you f—” Draco tried to speak—tried really hard—but failed miserably, his voice dying in his throat as Harry released his arm and peeled him open with one hand, wrapping the other arm under Draco’s abdomen and jerking his hips upwards and forcing Draco onto tiptoes.

The familiar spell was murmured and then Harry was pressing two lube coated fingers into Draco’s softened arsehole, sliding them deftly past the clenching muscles until they were in all the way. Draco was shaking, his knuckles bulging white where he gripped the edge of the counter. He wiggled involuntarily and earned a few expertly administered nudges to his prostate.

His cry was still ringing around the kitchen when Harry, scissoring for a brief three seconds, pulled out his fingers, leaving Draco impatiently clenching for more. When he pressed the tip of his well-slicked cock to Draco’s hole, Draco became aware of his own whorish panting. Harry must have heard it too because instead of pushing in and fucking him like Draco was aching for him to, he simply slapped Draco’s arsehole with his cock, the wet smacks lewd and Harry’s evil chuckle ever lewder.

“Fucker!” Draco spat over his shoulder, kicking back with one leg but not managing to make contact.

With an even louder laugh, Harry finally aimed and pushed in, not giving Draco time to adjust before completely sheathing himself, and Merlin help his soul but Draco _loved_ when Harry was ruthless like this. When he pulled out and fucked back in not a moment later, Draco moaned with his head thrown back, immediately prompting Harry to grab a handful of platinum blond hair and tug, his other hand on Draco’s hip.

Gasping and twitching with every stroke, Draco let his eyes fall shut, his cock grazing the cool countertop each time he was thrown forward on a particularly savage thrust. Harry was grunting softly as he fucked him, his hand tangled firmly in Draco’s hair, his fingers bruising Draco’s hip. There was no restraint in the way he just _took_ Draco, fucking into him with brutal force and speed, bending Draco’s spine inwards with his grip on his hair.

Delirious with pleasure, his sweaty hands slipping on the smooth granite countertop, his cock begging for some attention, Draco wound one arm back to dig his nails into Harry’s flexing arse, bringing the other hand down to his cock and fisting it with swift, well-practised strokes, his orgasm rushing in gleefully.

Harry groaned as Draco tightened around him, picking up the pace and sending Draco crashing into the counter. It would’ve been uncomfortable if only Draco had been in his senses. But he was too busy coming all over the black granite, letting out a keen of overwhelming bliss as Harry simply pounded away into him, yanking his head back even further to lock his teeth into the side of Draco’s throat, biting him right over his jugular as with one final, growled heave, he fell over the edge too, his hips not stilling for a long time as he spilled and spilled into Draco.

It took a lot of long, gasped pulls of air for both of them to catch their breath, Harry’s hand gentling through Draco’s hair, carefully smoothing it off Draco’s sweaty forehead. Both of them were slick with perspiration and Draco still trembled lightly as Harry turned him around for a slow kiss that deepened until they were both clinging to each other.

“I believe I interrupted some complaining?” Harry said against Draco’s lips when he’d pulled away. He sounded slightly smug.

“That bloody ferret,” said Draco pathetically, voice tremulous. Harry laughed.

“I’ll spell his cage shut so he doesn’t get out tonight,” he promised, running wet lips lovingly over Draco’s face. Just barely mollified, Draco sighed through his nose with a scowl, bleary-eyed as he traced his forefinger over one of the tattoos on Harry’s chest.

“One of these days, you’re going to come home and find him gone, I swear to Merlin,” he threatened. But it didn’t sound as morbid as he’d hoped because his arsehole was still clenching and his cock was trickling a final drop of come down his shaking thigh and Harry was running large, calloused hands all over him. “And maybe I’ll kick _you_ out too,” he added sullenly when Harry just grinned.

Still reeling and too fucked out to be properly annoyed, Draco scowled, simply shoving Harry off with both hands and limping away inside.

~*~

When Harry had come home one day with a tiny tattoo of the outline of a ferret on his left flank, Draco had nearly carved it out with a knife. He’d been with Harry long enough at that point to know about his love for tattoos and his random decisions to get inked with things that were meaningful to him. Over the course of their relationship, Harry had gotten so many tattoos that eventually accepting the little ferret hadn’t been a big deal for Draco.

He’d been with Harry at the tattoo parlour when he’d gotten the twin black paw prints in memory of his godfather (Harry had jokingly referred to him as his ‘dogfather’ and had then laughed at his own joke for twenty minutes), a complete moon cycle in a gradient of grey in memory of Remus Lupin (elegant and also strangely titillating but Draco had never told Harry that), the bright, fiery phoenix as a tribute to Albus Dumbledore (and to the bird itself, as Harry had insisted), a beautifully illustrated cat to pay homage to Minerva McGonagall (complete with the exact same markings around the eyes), a pink umbrella with miniscule sparks shooting out the pointed end for Hagrid (something Draco hadn’t really understood at first but had just accepted because it made Harry smile that crinkly-eyed smile for a long time) and the deathly hallows symbol which Harry got inked right underneath the scar that the horcrux had left on his chest.

On Weasley and Granger’s second wedding anniversary, Harry had surprised them by revealing a tattoo on his hip of an otter and Jack Russell terrier sitting cuddled together, their snouts gently bumping. Draco had felt a sense of detached loneliness that day but he didn’t know if it was because of the familiar latent jealousy of their friendship rearing its ugly head or because of the fact that he still couldn’t produce a Patronus himself.

Harry had also gotten a golden snitch tattooed beneath the nape of his neck after losing to Draco at a Seeker’s match. Draco had been gleeful and extremely smug, not to mention relieved because they had made a bet that the loser would get the tattoo the very same day and Draco had been terrified at the very notion of having ink punctured into his skin and left there permanently. Personally, the only marks he liked having on himself were the ones Harry left on him.

Draco loved them all. He could spend hours running his fingers over each outline and silhouette, every patch of colour, every graceful curve and curl of ink. They all looked beautiful on the background of Harry’s tanned skin, each one telling its own story. When they indulged in leisurely sessions of lovemaking Draco always found himself pressing soft fingertips and softer lips over each one, watching Harry’s muscles jump and shift under his touches.

His favourite one, however, was the one Harry had gotten without even telling him.

It had been a lazy Saturday morning when Draco had first noticed it. Harry, topless and drowsy, his back to Draco, had been making breakfast and humming to himself. Draco had been sat at the table reading the gossip section of the _Prophet_ and sipping on his tea, darting frequent admiring glances at the ridiculously perfect V of Harry’s upper body disappearing into his joggers.

When Harry had finally turned around and come over with two plates loaded with sausages and eggs, the sunlight had caught on something unfamiliar on Harry’s chest. Draco frowned, leaning forward and grabbing Harry’s arm and pulling him around the table until he was standing next to Draco.

“What?” Harry rasped in confusion.

It had taken Draco entirely too long to recognise the freshly inked lines, each one connecting a series of dots, placed right over Harry’s heart. Mouth open, breathing loud, Draco reached up and ran his fingertips over the new tattoo, hardly able to believe his eyes. Upon looking at Harry he saw that he was pink cheeked and chewing nervously on his lip, eyes anxious behind his glasses as he regarded Draco.

“This ... This is ...” Draco breathed, looking between Harry’s face and the tattoo. Harry shrugged. “When did you ...?”

“Last week,” Harry mumbled.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice sooner.” Draco shook his head with a sharp flick. “Why didn’t you show me?”

“I thought you’d—” Harry broke off, absently scratching his taut stomach, face still red. “I dunno, it’s kind of—”

“It’s ... me,” Draco said, slowly getting to his feet and pressing into him, his own face heating now. “It’s ... Draco.”

“Yes, Draco the _constellation_ ,” Harry blurted, like he thought Draco was really stupid. “Because I love you,” he suddenly added and Draco smiled helplessly through the scowl that had been about to line his face.

“And I love you,” he replied, placing his palm over the tattoo and nuzzling Harry’s jaw. “You didn’t have to, though. Did it hurt?”

Harry laughed. “You _have_ seen how many of these I have, yeah?” And then, kissing Draco’s nose, “No, it didn’t hurt. Not at all.”

“I really love it,” Draco admitted, unable to stop tracing his thumb over the tattoo.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. It’s officially my favourite.”

Harry had laughed and they’d settled down to eat breakfast, Draco staring unblinkingly across the table at the man he still couldn’t believe he’d been lucky enough to land and thinking that now that Harry had actually gotten a tattoo for him, they were probably stuck together forever.

‘Cause tattoos are forever, right?

~*~

The following week, Draco worked late almost every day. He was used to leaving Mungo’s by five—latest six—every day, and going home and attempting to cook dinner until Harry got home and salvaged it, or simply waiting for Harry to get back, meanwhile reading or watching TV.

On Thursday evening, it was past seven-thirty when he finally Flooed home, exhausted, irritable and smelling strongly of the bone-repairing potion he’d been working on all day. When he got home Harry was in the kitchen, mashing potatoes for shepherd’s pie and the lamb and vegetables smelt so good that Draco nearly just settled himself at the table like an excited labrador to await a plateful of dinner. He _loved_ Harry’s shepherd’s pie: Harry liked to add a heap of grated cheddar to the potatoes and it crusted beautifully. Draco always ended up eating about three helpings more than he was actually capable of eating.

Mouth watering, Draco ambled away inside, pulling off his stained robes on the way, his mood drastically improving at the thought of a hot shower followed by an unholy amount of shepherd’s pie. When he got to the bedroom the first thing he saw was Moody sitting up on his hind legs on the bed between their pillows and chewing determinedly on the corner of Draco’s pillowcase.

Without even thinking about it Draco picked up the delicate silver vase on the set of drawers near the door and hurled it at the ferret with a bellow of anger. Moody easily ducked away, the vase hitting the pillow and rolling off to drop to the floor with a dull clang. Moody hopped off the bed and darted into the en suite, hopping up onto the counter to crouch at the sink and drink out the tap. Immediately running in after him, Draco grabbed him with both hands and lifted his arms to fling him out of the bathroom, but the ferret beat him to it and simply wriggled out of his grasp and leapt down, scampering out of the bedroom and pausing only to grab the robes Draco had just taken off and left in a pool near the door.

“Don’t even think about it!” Draco roared, giving chase at once.

Harry, evidently on his way to investigate the source of all the screaming and clanging, froze in his tracks in bewilderment when Draco burst out of the bedroom, emitting shrill war-cries as he ran after Moody who was, of course, headed right for the kitchen, Draco’s robes sliding along behind him.

Unfortunately, Moody was exceptionally swift to squeeze in behind the fridge and drag the robes in after him and by the time Draco skidded in, he’d disappeared.

“Oh, I am so _done_ with you!” howled Draco, drawing his wand and simply levitating the fridge out of the way, the huge mass of metal hovering precariously in the air, the electric cord strained, the plug nearly falling out of the socket.

Moody looked extremely startled. He’d apparently been arranging and burrowing into Draco’s robes and when he was suddenly exposed he went completely still, sitting up on his haunches to stare up at the floating fridge and then at Draco who stood there, panting and red-faced.

To Draco’s rising ire, he saw some more garments of his in the nest. Moody had somehow acquired some more of his socks, a pyjama top and an old T-shirt of Harry’s that Draco sometimes slept in.

“You little shit!” Draco yelled, stomping forward.

“Don’t hurt him!” Harry cried, hurrying back in.

“Oh, I totally plan to!” Draco snapped, pointing his wand at the levitated fridge with his left hand and bending down to rifle through the contents of the nest with his right, grabbing his clothes and throwing them over his shoulder while the ferret hopped on the spot and screeched, swiping at Draco’s hand with a tiny paw. “Get off!” barked Draco, batting the little creature away and dragging the old T-shirt out from under a carefully collected pile of ( _stolen_!) chocolate biscuits, shaking off the crumbs.

Something much larger than your average biscuit toppled out of the folds of the t-shirt and Draco paused, scowling, as he flung the T-shirt aside and made a grab for it. It was a small, black, velvet-covered box and Draco turned it over and over in his hands for a few seconds, frowning down at it.

Quite suddenly, his stomach clenched and his wand slipped out of his hand. There was a rushing sound in his ears. Behind him, Harry seemed to have turned into stone for how silent he had fallen. Draco spotted the hinge and turned the box over, his hands clumsy and fumbling as he prised it open.

The line of diamonds sparkled daintily up at him, the platinum band so shiny it was almost blinding. Draco stopped breathing entirely, his body turning hot and cold in turns, making him feel dizzy and discombobulated. He could feel his eyes bulging out madly and his mouth was very dry.

Swallowing hard, the lump in his throat aching, Draco slowly turned around. For one wild moment he thought Harry had left. But then he looked down to see Harry on one knee, his face scarlet as he wrung his hands anxiously, chewing on both lips.

They both just stared at each other for a while, Draco with his mouth hanging open and Harry looking more and more apprehensive until, suddenly, he just screamed, “Well?! Will you fucking marry me, then?!”

“You’re lying,” Draco said weakly, suddenly shivering from head to foot like he’d been out in a snow storm without any clothes on. At this, Harry looked so outraged that Draco hurriedly babbled, “If you’re serious, I mean if you really want to then yes, I will, but if you’re playing a trick on me to embarrass me and make me think that you’re—” Draco broke off and stumbled back a step because Harry got to his feet and took one bold step towards him.

Draco dropped the ring box in startlement. Harry caught it without looking away from Draco’s face.

“Will you marry me?” Harry asked quietly, plucking the ring out and tossing the box aside.

“Yes,” whispered Draco hoarsely. And then, clearing his throat and nodding, “Yeah. Yes, I will.”

Neither of them said a word as Harry lifted his hand and slid the ring onto his finger. The silence stretched on as they both simply continued to stare down at the ring, twinkling prettily.

Then Draco launched himself forward, covering the one inch gap between them to fling his arms around Harry’s neck and crash their mouths together, kissing him so hard that their teeth clacked. Harry didn’t exactly display much grace in kissing him back either, dragging Draco even closer with both hands on his bum and tilting his head to further deepen the wet, clumsy kiss.

Draco had no sense of time or place as they kissed; all he was aware of was Harry, Harry’s arms around him, Harry’s mouth under his—and that diamond ring on his finger. They swayed where they stood, caressing each other as they kissed, Draco’s heart beating so furiously fast and hard that he worried for a second that maybe he was going to need medical attention. But as he ran his hands down Harry’s shoulders and arms and then pressed them into Harry’s chest, he could feel his heart racing too.

Finally, breathless and flushed, they pulled away, beaming at each other, laughing in disbelief and exultation until they were interrupted by a bout of indignant chattering.

Draco turned to see Moody hopping on the spot while looking up at the fridge that had, thankfully, not crashed back to the ground as Draco had been busy getting engaged to the guy he’d loved since he was fourteen.

“You really thought hiding the ring box in that little idiot’s nest was a good idea?” Draco asked, picking up his wand and turning to raise an eyebrow at Harry, although he couldn’t help the accompanying grin.

Harry grinned back. “Well, you go through it every day. So ...” He trailed off, shrugging.

“You weren’t worried that that creature might find it and swallow the ring or something?”

“No, I told him it’s a secret,” Harry said very earnestly.

Rolling his eyes, Draco turned around and carefully brought the fridge back down, shifting it until it was in its usual spot. “There you go, you fucking pain-in-the-arse,” he said, quite helplessly finding himself sounding rather fond. “Build your fucking nest and soil it for all I care.”

But then Moody’s little head appeared from behind the fridge and he wiggled his nose at Draco, looking very pensive. Before Draco could even think up another insult to hurl at him, the ferret had scuttled out and over to where Draco stood.

The next second he leapt up and scrambled up Draco’s side, ending up on his shoulder and sniffing enthusiastically behind his ear. Draco froze in horror and stared over at a rather shocked Harry.

“What does he want?” Draco whispered, holding very still.

Harry shook his head, his eyes very wide, watching as Moody pawed at Draco’s hair for a moment before curling his long, fluffy body around his neck so that Draco stood there looking like he was wearing a fur-lined scarf.

“Oh my god,” said Draco and Harry in unison.

“He _likes_ you!” Harry exclaimed delightedly. “ _That’s_ why he keeps stealing your stuff!”

“Nooo!” Draco groaned. “But I hate him!”

Moody squeaked softly and pressed his pink, damp little snout to Draco’s cheek.

Harry’s eyes shone with happiness as his gaze wandered down to Draco’s hand again. “Wouldn’t be the first time you learned to love someone you hated.”

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> Please be kind to me and leave me lots of comments and kudos or I will cry on you. ❤️
> 
> Also, come say hi to me on [Tumblr!](https://l0vegl0wsinthedark.tumblr.com/)
> 
> xoxo


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